


And the Darkness Did Not Comprehend It.

by EluWrites (DeanC)



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Accidental Death, Angst, Betrayal, Drunkenness, Eventual Clayson, Gen, Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-08 07:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21231740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeanC/pseuds/EluWrites
Summary: Rumor had it, Deadwood's old priest was killed on the road after being run out of town. They say rumors have roots in truth.





	1. Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from John 1:5: The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.  
Chapter title is Isiah 1:18: “ ‘Come now, and let us reason together,’ ” says the Lord, ‘Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red like crimson, they shall be as wool’ ” 
> 
> Much love to savage_starlight and the UnDeadwood Discord crew for giving me the courage to post my first, ever, fic :3

Matthew stared at the church. Burned and ramshackle as it was, it was still his home. He carefully avoided thinking about the trunk full of belongings he'd found, remnants of the previous preacher of Deadwood. He also steered clear of thoughts of his trip to the town and the reasons for it. A dark night, a disturbed camp, a shot ringing out across the desert and finding the corpse of a fellow preacher the next day. It had taken a lot for him to pick up a gun again with this new group of friends he had made, and each time one of Clayton's pistols barked, it gave him a brief flash of that night.

The desert didn’t have a lot of stormy nights, but it did have a heck of a lot of dark ones. That time between when the moon sets and the glow starts to spread on the eastern horizon is the darkest; fire burned low, air cold as a northern winter, barely able to see your hand before your face. It makes the shadows long and strange, sounds loud and close and everything dreamlike. 

Matthew had done his best on his ride to make it to the next town without a stop, but the light had run out on him. He’d had to leave the caravan he was traveling with, his companions at the time heading to a different town than his own destination, leaving him to travel a few days by himself. A small fire, his tent set up, his horse settled for the night. He hadn’t meant to doze sat right by the fire, his back to a boulder, but the night had been cold, he was feeling lonely, and the bottle of whiskey he’d been gifted had made for fine company. 

The crack of a twig a few yards off had roused him, pushing through the haze of his dream and dragging him half to wakefulness. Barely on the edge of the firelight, he saw a shadow moving, long and threatening, feet shuffling on the sand and another rock clicking against the hard dirt. Matthew Mason did something that would haunt him for the rest of his life. Three things, truth be told. The first was the panic itself, lending him to utter a cry he’d swear, if pushed, had been a manly grunt of surprise, but had actually been far higher pitched and full of actual fear. 

The second was reaching for the pistol he’d been given to protect himself. One of the men guarding the caravan he’d travelled with had been in mighty need of confession, and the reverend had given him his ear for a good few nights, and given him advice on the days in between. In return, said gunslinger had offered a revolver on hearing Matthew was to depart the group. He’d refused, at first, but given in. He’d left it to hand, just in case, and he reached for it now, lifting it to point at the moving shadow. 

The third thing was pulling the trigger as soon as the shadow had made some noise besides those of movement, words maybe. The crack of the shot echoed against the boulder behind him and across the sand around his tiny camp. There was a thump followed by silence. The reverend was finally fully awake and entirely questioning if he’d actually heard or seen anything, or simply jumped at a dream or shadow. All was still, save for the vague crackle of his dying fire and the thumping of his heart in his ears. 

Rubbing at his eyes, he grumbled softly and put the gun away in his pack and dragged it under the canvas he’d set up. It didn’t take too long for him to find sleep again as soon as his head met the rolled jacket he’d prepared as a pillow. He slept the sleep of the dead, the moment of fear chalked up to a bad dream and the vice of liquor. 

By the time he woke the next morning, the sun was already bright in the sky, setting his head to pounding and leading him to deeply regret the whiskey. His waterskin and such were all outside his makeshift tent and he crawled out of it, glad to be spared the indignity of others seeing his graceless waking. He was drawn up short when he spotted the figure on the ground a ways away from his camp, and the night before returned to his memory, as stark as the bright light around him. 

_A sound, the crack of a pistol, a thump, then quiet._

A pool of blood dried on the sand, with a man slumped in the middle of it, white collar showing above his frock coat. 

It was all Matthew could do to scramble away before he heaved bile and sank to his knees, prayers for forgiveness on his lips. 

It had taken perhaps an hour before he could muster the courage to check the man for identification, find a way to get him back to his parish, find out whom he had to report himself to. He’d found the Bible and hymnal in the man’s pack, along with a letter, crumpled and scuffed, addressed to the priest it seemed. Said missive gave him pause, one Mayor Farnham, giving the priest notice that a replacement had been found, and should he not leave by the next morning, he would be run out of town. It didn’t give any real details as to why which did little to alleviate the steadily growing guilt. 

Steeling himself, Matthew found an area of softer ground to scrape a hole for the corpse, and spent the rest of the day piling rocks around the priest for a bier. He found two sticks and a piece of twine to tie together as a cross, and gave the man his last rites. If he’d shed tears, there was no one around to see, and he’d not say which were grief and which were guilt. The sun was heading to the horizon by the time he was done and had his horse packed. Instead of continuing north as he had been, he turned his steed to the west, toward Deadwood, the town where the priest had come from, and perhaps toward a chance at redemption for himself. 

He prayed he’d find it, or at least put enough distance between himself and the grave to allow him to bury the memories as well. 


	2. Even my close friend in whom I trusted,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rumor has it, Clayton's cold manner is hiding something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Psalm 41:19: Even my close friend in whom I trusted, who ate my bread, has lifted his heel against me.

Clayton didn’t mind being on watch over this new rag-tag group of people he’d found himself thrust into. Al Sweringen was a squirrely bastard, but he knew how to read people, and he knew how to put together a group that could fill in for each-other’s weaknesses. Miriam with her sweet voice could gentle anyone who crossed her way and persuade them to part with their own mother for a smile. Arabella had more behind those eyes than anyone knew, but it didn’t matter a jot in light of her booksmarts and guts. For a man who wanted peace, Aly was damn good at shooting. The Reverend… Clay had thoughts he didn’t quite wish to truly contemplate about Matthew Mason, but for all the man seemed soft, he’d stuck with the group and pulled his weight.

And then there was him, Clayton ‘The Coffin’ Sharpe. As always, thoughts of himself as part of this group gave rise to a derisive snort and a shake of the head. 

_If only they knew.._

Three short years previously found Clayton looking far different; clean-shaven, roughshod and wild, and going by an entirely different name. The Nubuck gang wasn’t so much a ‘gang’ per se, but a group of five young men with too much confidence and time on their hands, seeking to make quick money through thievery. Bandits was what others called them. Opportunists was what they called themselves. Their home base, a couple of shacks deep in the desert around a watering hole, kept them well hidden. The banditry hadn’t earned them big bucks yet, but it kept them in booze and food and let them live at their leisure. 

Billy and Loyd Dalton were twin brothers he’d known growing up, both equally happy handling horses or guns. Sampson Pidgeon had joined the three of them early on. By far not the brains of the outfit but the strongest motherfucker Clayton had ever known. Eric Chen, who had a birth name they could all pronounce but pretended not to, had a damn good eye for strategy and positioning for their raids. Ferd Roth was the one Clay was closest to, however, the two of them equal in their accuracy with a pistol. That they shared a bed together didn’t bother the rest of the gang one bit, at least not that any of them said. 

He’d never have admitted it at the time, but Clayton had been entirely smitten with Ferd, his heart singing when he’d stood shoulder to shoulder with the man, making use of their gun skills to gain wealth and infamy. The joy felt from a completed job was nothing to that of their own, private, celebrations in their room, of waking with his lover in his arms the next day, hungover and happy. The bright desert sun paled in comparison to Ferd’s grin on counting up the dollars and doling them out to the group. He smiled far more himself back then. 

They didn’t listen when Eric said this next job was wrong. The chinaman was known to be paranoid about details. True, it had kept them alive, but this time it just seemed like he was being over-cautious. This particular wagon was said to be carrying a chest full of mined gold, hidden among the baggage of a pair of sisters travelling to meet the elder’s new husband to be. It was discussed whether it was too good to be true, but they’d voted, and Eric had lost. They would waylay the coach, take all the baggage and let it be on it’s way. So long as they all kept masks on and got it done quick, there surely wouldn’t be a problem. 

The coach hadn’t held two women, it had held half a dozen lawmen. The guards and driver hadn’t been what they appeared either, each a hired bounty hunter as part of the posse sent after them. The Daltons had been felled first, their horses shot from under them and the pair of them kneecapped and screaming in pain. Eric had been next, a bullet through his skull as he tried to yell for the others to call off the attack. 

Sampson had ended up in a brawl with four of them, killing two with his bare hands before a shot to his gut had finally bled enough to slow him down. He’d been taken alive as well. 

Ferd had tried to get them free, encouraging Clay to come with him to do so, high on the thrill of the fight and overly confident in their ability to shoot better and faster than anyone. The wild, wolfish grin still haunted him to this day. He’d stayed behind and Ferd had been captured. 

The three that still lived had all been hanged within a couple of days. They’d stolen too much for prison, indeed having taken horses in the past. Clay hadn’t seen that part, but he’d seen them buried, and seen the wanted posters with his likeness on them published a few days after that. He’d taken a risk, heading back into town, but he’d needed to see the graves. Staring at Ferd’s grave for a good hour in the moonlight, the guilt had consumed him. He’d cried his fill, murmured soft words, begging for forgiveness, which had slowly faded away as he gathered himself. 

After that, he’d grown out his whiskers and left town. Long days and weeks on the road helped him take all he felt and bury it deep down inside, leaving his heart and gaze cold. He took money to kill bad men and killed them well. He used his lack of emotion to keep people at bay, ensuring he couldn’t betray anyone else again as he’d betrayed Ferd. Remaining a mystery helped with all of these things, and he grew to like being left to his own devices. 

Now, however, he’d been saddled with this group of all kinds of weird who wouldn’t let him remain cold and silent and alone. Between Miriam’s inquisitiveness and the Reverend’s… Reverendness, he could feel something in him gain the slightest spark of warmth, and the ice around his heart start to sweat.


	3. Vengeance Shall Be Taken On Him Sevenfold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then, PLOT happens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Genesis 4:15

A lazy sunday evening found the group of friends at the Gem Saloon, lazy with bellies full of good food. Reverend Mason had just finished evening prayers and joined the already somewhat tipsy group, though he refrained from drinking himself, giving the excuse of the Sabbath. A friendly game of cards had just started, when screams were heard from near the church, followed by a sudden chill in the breeze flowing through the inn.

Clayton was the first to his feet, guns in hand, heading for the door, his gaze sweeping over the rest of the group who moved a moment or two behind him. Silently cursing himself, and all of them, for growing complacent, he took a peek outside the doors to try to see what was happening. What he saw forced the cold air deep into his bones and left him unable to move. 

The figures marched -through- the church, parts of them passing through it’s newly painted walls, some simply appearing through the doors. While they were hazy, their features were still recognisable as people, though they faded at the feet and a little around the edges, and glowed softly in the fading light. They were lead by what was unmistakably a preacher, the black coat and white collar easily noticed. In total the group appeared to be a dozen or more, and had been seen by others of the town, which had given rise to the screams and a number of people running down the main thoroughfare, away from the church. 

“Ghosts?” Arabella murmured from beside him, she being the next fastest to get to her feet and see what was happening. She leaned against Clay’s shoulder, an annoyance, but it let her see past him to what was happening. The word spread through the rest of the group as they approached windows to see out. 

Only Reverend Mason was silent, growing still as he saw the group, and it’s leader, his flesh turning as pale as the spirits outside. 

“Bella, what do you think they want? Are they dangerous?” Miriam spoke up next, but the question was soon answered. A drunk stumbled out of the Bella Union, right into the path of one of them, a masked man holding two pistols. The drunk took a swipe at him, his hand passing through the being, weapons and all. He laughed, and the spirit took aim again. The soft echo of a gunshot reached the group at the Gem, and the drunk stood stunned for a moment, before he hit the ground. No blood, but he was still on the floor. Dead. 

Arabella had already moved away from Clayton at this point and rummaged in her bag for books and advice. This stirred the gunslinger, and Aly, who had just got his own gun loaded, into motion, and they ducked out of cover to take aim and fire. Their bullets blew up splinters and dirt as they went right through the spirits. A volley was returned as the pair ducked back inside, and soft hits, as though someone tapped on the walls and door frames, showed how close the shots were. 

The echo of something _familiar_ about one of the gunmen’s stances bit at Clayton, and indeed, Aly kept trying to get a second or third look at members of the group, finding something familiar with them as well. _Who -are- these blasted spirits, and what do they want?_

He caught sight of Miriam then, eyes rolled back, the sight familiar to all of them, a sign she had taken a moment to go play cards with the dealer and see what strength she could glean from it. She awoke again, a moment later, looking shaken, but ducked out the door to take aim with her pistol. Even before she shot, it seemed to have the faintest wisp of smoke rising from it, and that trace continued as her bullet streaked toward a spirit, one toward the back, a darker skinned man. It tore through the spirit and destroyed it, and Clayton swore he heard the woman utter a soft apology under her breath. 

“Well.. we can’t keep doin’ -that- all night, that Dealer ain’t going to be that kind to us..” Aly complained and looked to Arabella. “Anythin’ in your book?” Bella raised a finger and continued frantically reading, looking to perhaps be onto something. 

Clayton, however, looked to check on the Reverend. He still stood in plain view of the window, staring, transfixed and pale. He reached for the larger man to drag him away, catching sight of the ghostly priest pointing toward said window. With barely a hair’s breadth in it, he tore Matthew away from the window before it shattered inward, punctured by more ghostly bullets. 

“What’s -wrong- with you Reverend? Snap out of it!” 

Denied a hit, the spirits, as a group, screamed into the night. The sound of it chilled to the bone, a screech like tearing metal, nails on glass, and endless, unmistakable anger and hatred. The sound formed one word, one unmistakable word. 

“REVENGE!” 

The bullets spattered at the outside of the Gem, smashing more windows, catching off doorframes, but thankfully not penetrating the walls. Not yet. A screech from upstairs showed someone had been hit, but that could be dealt with later. 

“I’ve got it! We need salt!” came Arabella’s voice from behind the tables, one of them knocked over to provide her better cover. She pointed toward the bar and the way to the Gem’s kitchens. 

“Salt, in a line, around the town. Should cut them off and keep them out, at least for a while, so we can figure this shit out.” 

Clayton gave another glance to Mason, the man now insensate and useless, curled into a ball by the doorframe, eyes staring into nothing and tears on his cheeks. With a growl of frustration, he turned to Aly. 

“You hole up here… me and Miriam are faster…” 

Miriam nodded, stowing her gun in it’s holster once more and keeping low, leading the way to the kitchen. Clayton joined her a moment later as they started digging for bags of salt. Further spattering, like rain hitting a tin roof, told them the ghosts hadn’t let up their attack, though this time the shots seemed to be from closer by. They heard Bella speak further from the other room. 

“Damnit… the shootin’... it’s breaking down what spiritual protections the Gem has. Places that people live in are protected. Not sure how they got through the church, but they’re breakin’ this place down. We got to get the salt going now!” 

Miriam and Clayton bolted for the back door of the Gem, heading in opposite directions to start their circle of salt, praying they had enough. 

Inside, Bella eased toward the Reverend again, checking him over. She’d seen shock before, she’d seen terror before. This seemed to be beyond both, Mason withdrawn so deeply into himself. She saw nothing for it but to give another shock and slapped the man, hard, across the face. 

“Reverend! We may need you!” 

The hit worked and the Reverend’s eyes focused on her finally, though the tears didn’t abate and the colour didn’t return to him, save for the cheek she’d slapped. Bella checked him over again, frowning, then tried to tug him deeper inside, behind the table she’d used as shelter earlier. 

“Come on Matthew… let’s get you where it’s safe.” 

It didn’t take much for the larger man to resist, and he shook his head, looking sorrowful and resigned. 

“No Bella. They’re here for me. If I… if I go out to them. They’ll stop.” 

The meaning of the words took a moment to register with her, but Arabella knew bullshit when she heard it and shook her head, again trying to draw the Reverend away. 

“Not sure where you got that idea, Mason, but a better idea is getting safe and waiting for Clayton and Miriam to get that salt circle up. Shouldn’t take them more than a couple minutes. Just got to hope this place stays solid long enough.” 

Again he resisted, head ducking down as he shook it. The timing couldn’t have been better as one of the ghostly bullets made it through the wooden wall of the Saloon, just where the Reverend’s head had been, flying over Bella’s shoulder. That got them both moving, along with Aly, the group of them scrambling back toward the makeshift shelter of the tipped tables. 

The stairs to the porch around the Gem creaked, the wood screaming at the sudden cold as the ghostly priest started up them, his steps slow and ponderous, as though walking through thick mud or molasses. Bella wrapped herself around Reverend Mason and murmured, pleading for their friends to get done soon. She could hear them now, the spirits murmuring to themselves, unsure whether any of the others did, on and on, the quietest, but most disturbing chant, repeating itself. 

“Revenge for the fallen. Revenge for the betrayed. Revenge for the murdered. Revenge for the wronged.”


End file.
